


Counting Kisses

by Whispering_Sumire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas, Everybody Lives, Falling In Love, Fanmix, Fluff, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Pack, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-23 16:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17083388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whispering_Sumire/pseuds/Whispering_Sumire
Summary: The four times Stiles counted the kisses, and the one time he lost count, and all the pining in between.





	Counting Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> ❄ Gifter: [whispering-sumire755](https://whispering-sumire755.tumblr.com/)  
> ❄ Giftee: [lozenger8](http://lozenger8.tumblr.com/)  
> ❄ A/N: I hope you like this gift, and merry, merry christmas!!!
> 
> Also, have a [skittles fanmix](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6c97dF5OqWtOFR0YYoVY4c), that I couldn't find any pictures for, but, still, lol
> 
> (Content Warning: References to Gerard doing the Thing, that I tried to make as vague as possible, but are still there, and referenced;; also, lowkey featuring 'the sheriff doesn't have healthy coping mechanisms')
> 
>  _Love and soulhugs_ , xoxoxo

The first time they kiss, it's because Stiles is crying.

He doesn't even remember _why_.

His mom had just died, his dad was never home, and yes, he _loved_ Scotty, but he'd started to realize that Scott's dad was probably losing himself in that same bottle his dad was, in that same sharp-acrid smell, only he seemed so much more _eager_ , reckless, angry, and Stiles had been so _overwhelmed_ , holding it together by the skin of his teeth, by the edge of his fingernails. He thinks it was a toy, that broke him, or a dinosaur-shaped chicken nugget, _something_ , and he'd ended up sobbing like the child he was, all big and loud and the-whole-stupid-world-is-ending wails, melodramatic hiccups included.

And then Scott had kissed him; it had been shocking enough to freeze him in place, huge tears still tumbling down his cherry-red cheeks as he looked into sparkling petrichor eyes.

Scotty smiled something soaked in hope and benediction and _happy_.

A kiss meant to make it better, a kiss borne from a childish kind of love, from being best friends and wanting to make everything okay again.

The second time, it's because they're curious, and have only just entered the world of teenagers, and don't know what they are, yet, but feel safe with each other, because they've _always_ felt safe with each other.

It's more than a chaste, sweet-simple carress.

It's deep and it tastes all citrus-tang, delicate, breathtakingly intimate, and when they pull away, Scott smiles just like he had before, dimples soaked in sunshine, lips bruised and spit-slick and lovely, and Stiles' heart skips a beat before running off like it's got ideas of its' own about this whole thing, like it wants to beat right out of his chest and hop right into Scotty's.

But it stays behind his rib-cage, with his clenching lungs and all his fucked up secrets, all his plans that he has to re-spin or give up on altogether because _Scotty's_ lungs wouldn't be able to handle it, and, say what you will about Stiles, he'd always try to do his best by Scott—sometimes it's difficult, because he misses something, doesn't think it through, or forgets entirely that he should be worried at all, but he always _tries_.

Which is why he latches onto Lydia, because, really, he shouldn't want to crawl beneath Scott's skin and just _live_ there, he shouldn't want to keep kissing him forever, he _shouldn't_... right?

The third time, it's almost an accident.

The third time happens after Scott gets all lycanthrope-moon-spurred-furry. After Stiles has fucked up numerous times, and tried his best (and mostly failed) not to feel abandoned or jealous or petty of the budding Romeo & Juliette relationship happening between Scott and Allison (who's suddenly, somehow, through blood, sweat, and tears, been penned into the very small list of people he cares enough about to do stupid shit and/or die for, which just makes it all infinitely worse). After Derek's killed Peter and Bitten three traumatized teenagers, and a fourth going through enough of an identity crisis to become a _Kanima_ instead. After Peter's driven Lydia half-crazy trying to crawl his way back from the dead, after Scott's come up with a relatively ruthless plan (Stiles is proud and terrified in equal turns, but, mostly, he just never wants to exist in a world where his best friend comes to him, shaking violently, a bloody hole in his shirt that's too close to too many vital organs, telling him he _drove his mother home like that after she'd just been threatened by the old man who fucking **stabbed** him_) to get rid of the Argent patriarch, after their third fullmoon.

It happens directly after Scott saves Isaac and Gerard decides kidnapping Stiles will put the other boy in his place, will send a _message_ , will make Scotty subservient again (he wasn't ever fucking _subservient_ in the first place, you geriatric psychopath), after he's been painted in ink-stains and long lines of crimson, after he's been dumped in a parking lot and doubled back for Erica and Boyd because how the _fuck_ did _anyone_ think he'd just leave them behind? And after he's driven Roscoe into the warehouse with Lydia riding passenger, watched Scott leave with Allison and Chris only to have him show up in his room three hours later, stating confidently that he'll get her back—Stiles kisses him.

He doesn't even really mean to, it's like his body moves on its' own.

Their lips press, soft and tender, until Scott gasps and Stiles licks inside, chases the exhaustion and the starlight on his best friend's tongue, whines high and bright when Scott, tentatively, kisses back, clumsy and a little confused but _there_. He's devastated and aching and he _wants_ , and it's so goddamn selfish, and in just a moment, he's going to pull back, apologize, help Scotty get the girl back, beg him to pretend it never happened, but right now he's a raw, open, bleeding wound, and all he can do is melt into the familiar body holding him, release all his desperation into a kiss that shouldn't even be happening, try not to let the tightness in his throat and the heat in his cheeks and the sting in his eyes turn into pathetic, needless sobs.

He doesn't notice the way black veins spider through Scott at every point of contact, just sighs when some of the tension, the _pain_ , eases.

"Stiles?" Scott breathes, overwhelmed and concerned and still so very, very confused.

Stiles just smiles a pretty lie up at him as he steps a solid three paces away, his bones suddenly feeling frost-bitten, his skin tingling with a chilled, sinking sort of sorrow. A very dramatic part of him wonders if he'll ever be able to get warm again, even as he says, "Sorry, it was—. Nothing. Just forget it."

But Scott presses, hand coming up to cup Stiles' cheek, fingertips brushing the scape there, tickle-light and tender, "What happened?"

Stiles presses his lips together, shakes his head, and turns away, deflects as masterfully as he is able, babbling about what they're going to do about Derek and the puppies, now, after everything, and should they be trying to track Gerard somehow, and what, exactly, are his brilliant plans for Allison, and should Stiles see Deaton about the Spark thing, and—

He doesn't think Scott buys it, but he goes with it, anyway.

They don't talk about that kiss again for a very long time.

The fourth time, it's stupid and _ridiculous_.

The fourth time, Scotty has red eyes, and Derek doesn't, and they're all still shaken up from the Alphas and the Darach and their _sacrifice_ , but Cora found Derek, and Scotty found Malia, and Kira seemed to burst in, clueless, out of nowhere. Their Pack is bigger, stronger, their bonds less fragile, more intricate, hallowed; there are still issues among them, but it feels more saturated in reality, settled, that they truly are _Pack_.

So, when christmas rolls around, Lydia and Erica force Der to let them decorate the loft, he and Kira and, surprisingly, Jackson, impose upon the man's kitchen, and they throw a small, personal party, all the parents and the teens and impromptu stragglers. There's laughter, stories shared, both the unabridged and embellished versions, and there's him bidding his dad not to freak out when a few of those stories explain one thing too many and the sheriff starts looking like he's either going to shoot someone or have a stroke, and _then_ —

Then there's mistletoe.

Then there's the Pack noticing when he and Scott end up under it, the whole lot of them (mostly the puppies) egging them on, let the True Alpha and his Mage _kiss_.

It's fate, serendipity, the _spirit of christmas_.

Stiles tries to ignore how his heart speeds up, but Scott obviously notices, if the way he cocks his head and murmurs, "We don't have to," is any indication. Scott's brows furrow, rain-soaked soil eyes filling with concern and more of that puppy-dog confusion, like he doesn't understand why the very _idea_ of this, kissing him in front of everyone, would fill Stiles with as much dread as excitement. And of course he wouldn't, he _shouldn't_ , with how much work Stiles has put into hiding it.

Stiles forces himself to breathe, offers a flaking, crumbling smile, and tugs on Scott's collar to rein him in.

He'd meant it to be short and sweet, honest, he did, but Scott's hands come to rest on his hips, and his body is firm and strong against Stiles', he smells like marshmallows and chocolate and sunshine, and his lips are soft and so fucking _warm_.

Which must be why, when Scott moves to pull away, Stiles keens, quiet and yearning, and almost helplessly pulls him closer, one hand still curled in Scott's shirt with an arm anchoring itself around the other boy's shoulders, as he begs him to open with his tongue, so he can taste, _feel_ , and when Scott does, starts to reciprocate with this kind of gentle-tender that almost makes Stiles want to _cry_ , he whimpers, soft and needy and vaguely hopeless, goes pliant even as he draws himself impossibly closer.

He doesn't want it to end, he doesn't want to lose this, god, but he doesn't.

And for long, mind-bending, simmering moments, it doesn't; salt-water clumps his eyelashes, longing and heartache probably cling to his scent, but he can't stop, doesn't know _how_.

His lungs are burning and his chest hurts when they finally break apart.

Scott's gaze scours him, searching and three shades shy of dawning realization. Stiles hopes, desperately, that Scotty's obliviousness will maintain, but he's pretty sure he's not that fucking lucky. His best friend's fingertips graze his jaw, and he can't tell who's trembling here, or if they both are.

"Stiles?" Barely a breath, a husky, wondering whisper.

Stiles doesn't think he'll ever get over the complexities Scott can pack into his name, how many layers he can sew into it.

"I—" Stiles begins, exhales shakily and disentangles himself from the boy- or, well, _man_ , really, after everything- that he loves, _has_ loved, his whole fucking life. Since before he realized what it was, what it could mean. It's terrifying, this whole thing is just... _daunting_.

And some of the wolves around them are looking on with a strange sort of sympathetic understanding, his dad and Melissa's eyes are wide, mouths agape, and Stiles _can't_. He can't handle this.

So he runs, his words fail him, and he runs, because what the fuck else is he supposed to do?

But Scott comes after him, of _course_ he does, all willful brave, unwitting strength, and _kindness_.

His best friend finds him sat on the steps that lead out of the loft's complex, knees drawn up, elbows resting on them, face in his hands. He left his jacket inside and the cold is seeping into his bones, frost gnawing at him like his doubt, his anxiety about the future, about where this goes, where this has been _leading_.

Ever since the beginning, it's always been coming to this, an inevitable conclusion, and he has no idea what that will be.

What if he loses him? what if he's _already_ lost him?

He's nearly convinced himself into a panic attack when a jacket floats over him, and the weighted warmth of a body envelops him shortly after, Scott sitting on the step behind him, arms pulling him back against a solid chest, holding him like it's _easy_.

"I have this feeling," the Alpha murmurs, "that you've been keeping secrets."

Stiles huffs, a little brokenly, and the tears are coming now, he couldn't stop them if he tried. He leans back into Scott's body, because he's warm, and Stiles is scared and selfish and he's going to take this comfort while he still can.

"I'm _always_ keeping secrets," Stiles points out.

"Not from me," Scott returns, and... yeah, that's pretty fair.

"Except this and the other thing."

Scotty hums, and Stiles shifts so their cheeks are pressed together, a subtle scenting, gentled caress.

"Yeah. But I think I can guess."

"Can you?"

"I think... I think you got beat up bad, and I don't think it was the other team getting the jump on you for winning. I've seen the _scars_ , man, you look like you've been—." _Tortured_ remains unsaid, but it hangs heavy in the crisp air between them. "Were you?"

"Gerard," Stiles sighs, solemn, but easier than he expects, less shattered glass in his throat and more spiders, tickle-tingle spindly legs, oil-slick and difficult, but not the agony he thought it might be. "He wanted to send a message, I wasn't going to fucking be one."

Scott holds him tighter, stays quiet for a very long time.

"I would say I'm sorry, but—" "I'd hit you over the head with a rolled up newspaper," Stiles promises, "so don't you fucking dare."

Scott digs his chin into Stiles' shoulder hard enough to make him wince, and grins, lop-sided and unfairly adorable, when Stiles glares at him for it.

He says, "I love you," the same way he does every shocking, profound thing he's ever done, like he's helpless not to, and Stiles' eyes widen, his breath hitches, as Scott tilts forward, presses his lips to the corner of Stiles' mouth, a kittenish, fleeting little thing, and he pulls away with his earthy eyes fluttered down, lips between his teeth, bashful, and _fuck him_.

Fuck him, Stiles thought he couldn't fall any deeper, fuck him for being so- so- so- _ugh_.

"I've _always_ loved you, but I didn't know I could love you like this until..."

Stiles wants to press, but he's honestly speechless, which is a pretty admirable feat.

"When was it?" Scott wonders, looking up through his eyelashes in a way that's so fucking cute it borders on stupid and offensive. He looks like a wide-eyed, helpless, innocent puppy, all fluff-gloss and starlight and tooth-rotting sweet. It should be illegal, Stiles thinks, heart skipping and speeding and generally giving up on maintaining any kind of pretense, it's bad for his health and continued survival. "That you knew?"

"We were still in elementary school," Stiles tells him, almost reflexively, and Scott blinks at him.

"Are you... you're serious? That long?"

Stiles deflects, "You said you didn't know until...?"

"Until Allison told me."

"I—you—what?" Stiles sputters, and Scott grins, soft and sugary, leans in to kiss him again.

"She told me that I needed to 'reassess' my relationship with you, because now that she was on the outside looking in, the sexual and romantic tension was giving her a headache."

Stiles tries to process that. Scott kisses him until he stops gaping, and then kisses him some more, and then Stiles stops trying to make any of this adhere to logic and kisses back.

They kiss, and Stiles doesn't lose _anything_ , gains quite a lot, instead, actually.

They kiss, and the snow falls and the waxing moon rises and it's probably one of the best christmases Stiles has ever had.

They kiss, and, eventually, Stiles loses count.


End file.
